We're All Mad Here
by non-canonical
Summary: Scenes from a revolution. (AU – canon divergence.)
1. The Old Year Passes

**Title: **The Old Year Passes  
**Spoilers: **General for series 4.  
**Warnings: **Slight swearing; reference to murder.  
**Disclaimer: **___Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Series title taken from Tom Waits.

**Summary: **The old year is ending, and Hal's regime is preparing to see in the new. (AU – canon divergence.)

**Feedback is love. :)**

* * *

Cutler stands at the window, watching the snow fall in big, fat flakes. There'll be a good few inches by morning: London remade, fresh and white, for the New Year. It would have been enough to bring the city to a standstill in the old days – but in Hal's Britain the roads are always kept clear, and the trains run on time. If the streets are quiet tonight, if the pavements remain untrodden, it isn't because people can't get around. It's just the way things are now: too quiet, in between the riots, the explosions, the fighting. People – humans – don't go out unless they have to. They think it's safer to stay inside, to keep the windows shut and the doors bolted. Keeping the vampires out.

Voluntary imprisonment. "The shape of things to come," Hal laughed. He laughs more than Cutler remembers him doing, but whether that's a good thing or not only time will tell.

But Cutler's being maudlin and there's really no need, not when he's in here with a cosy fire, and there's blood and champagne within arm's reach. It must be the waiting that's to blame, the expectation, the way the carriage clock on the mantelpiece is ticking away the dying minutes of the year. Cutler sinks into his armchair.

Hal lifts the cigar box and pauses, then waves it under Cutler's nose. But Cutler learns from his mistakes, and it's really not that long since the spring day when they stepped over the Prime Minister's body and walked in here for the first time: 10 Downing Street, and him at Hal's side. Hal sat behind that big, mahogany desk and offered him a cigar. Which Cutler foolishly accepted, despite the fact that he's never smoked; despite the fact that Hal knew it. He can still feel the bite of the smoke, of the humiliation. He can still see the amusement on Hal's face, that special brand of good-natured malice – and there's an echo of it there now, as Cutler shoves the box away.

Scratch and flare: Hal holds a match to the end of his cigar and sucks in a deep breath. Hal looks settled, but downstairs the noise is swelling: music, chatter, laughter. The party is in full swing. Everyone who's anyone is there: the great and the good, and the very, very bad. Even a few humans, because this regime of theirs is still new, still fragile, and you have to keep a few of the old guard around. During the transition, at least. Cutler glances at the clock: five minutes to midnight. Hal is cutting it fine.

"I know you can get away with turning up late," – More than that: Hal enjoys it. Not that Cutler would dare to say so – "but shouldn't you be making your grand entrance?"

It's not that he wants Hal to go, not down there with everyone competing for the man's attention – even trying to compete with Cutler, because they haven't seen this: Hal, perfectly content to stay here, with him. Just the two of them, the way it was always supposed to be. Cutler doesn't want Hal to leave, but he really needs to go down there, and he needs to do it before midnight. He needs to be seen – well, not so much welcoming in the New Year as presiding over it: ushering in the first full year of his rule. But Hal just stretches out his feet towards the fire and sends a perfect circle of smoke drifting towards the ceiling.

Cutler sits still – tries to sit still, tries not to fidget on the creaking leather, but the clock is ticking relentlessly on, and it must nearly be time. Hal is cutting it very fine indeed. Any minute now, Big Ben is going to herald midnight, and Hal is going to miss it if he isn't careful. Cutler debates the wisdom of pushing further.

"Hal …" Cutler glances up at the mantelpiece: it's already a minute past twelve.

Which is impossible, because Big Ben hasn't chimed, and the carriage clock must be wrong. Cutler checks his watch, but it tells him the same thing: that midnight has come and gone, and Big Ben hasn't struck the hour. Cutler's watch must be wrong as well, which is entirely possible: it might say Rolex on the dial, but the mechanism is pure Hong Kong. Cutler leans across and tilts Hal's wrist towards him. Hal's watch is old, older than Cutler, and he has to wind it every night – he refuses to trade it in for something that runs on batteries – but Cutler will admit that the thing keeps perfect time. And it says that it's two minutes past midnight.

"Relax," Hal tells him, relishing his confusion. "I can promise you that we haven't missed anything important." And it's all very well for him to laugh, but Cutler isn't in on the joke.

They sit, mirrored on either side of the fire, while the silence of the bells vibrates in the air. Hal can be a theatrical bastard at times, and he likes his audience to be suitably attentive.

"I've stopped all the clocks," Hal tells him. "It's not 2013; it isn't even 2012 any more. This is the year zero." Hal's face splits into a crescent of gleaming teeth and, downstairs, the band strikes up _Auld Lang Syne_. "From now on, it will always be the year zero."


	2. Blood and Circuses

**Title:** Blood and Circuses  
**Fandom:** Being Human  
**Spoilers:** General for series 4.  
**Warnings:** Violence; oc death; dog fighting.  
**Disclaimer:** ___Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Series title taken from Tom Waits.

**Summary:** The revolution is being televised. Cutler's set up a channel on YouTube, and everything. _(AU – canon divergence.)_

**Feedback is love. :)**

* * *

They call it the royal box, even though Hal has never bothered to have himself crowned. He's still Lord Hal, not King Henry IX, but no one is in any doubt where the power lies – even though today he's giving up his throne, conceding the limelight. And the limelight, if Cutler does say so himself, is very nicely done: bright enough to make them visible to the entire stadium – not difficult, given the way that Mr Snow's skin glares under artificial light – dark enough to give them some privacy. Not much, though, and Cutler is on his best behaviour, even back here in the second row. The second row where Fergus normally has to sit. It gives Cutler a perfect view of the stiff line of Hal's shoulders, of his frowning half profile.

"Did it really have to be a human?" Hal asks, as the presenter steps back up onto the stage.

"Unless you've found a way to make a vampire visible on TV," Cutler snaps, because they've been over this, or he'd thought they had, only apparently Hal hadn't been listening. "He's a big name. Used to host one of those talent shows."

"Talent?" Hal sneers. "The only talent they have is for dying."

"Well, he's popular, and we could use a little popularity right now." Which is a really stupid thing to say in front of Mr Snow, as Cutler realises the moment the words are out of his mouth.

Hal jerks round in his seat and Cutler tries not to flinch, but there's that little jut of Hal's jaw that always promises danger. For an old-fashioned man, Hal has come up with some inventive new punishments lately; he even put the Olympic flame to good use on one occasion, and nobody is going to forget that in a hurry. No matter how much they might try. But Hal wouldn't go that far, not with him, not even to impress Mr Snow – Cutler's certain of that. Fairly certain. Anyway, Hal would choose something more private for him, something far more personal.

Mr Snow waves a hand vaguely, dismissively, towards the big screen where the results of the audience vote are starting to come through. "I'm still not sure that I see the point of all this." And never mind that Cutler's the one who organised this evening's entertainment, that he's the one trying to drag this sport – literally kicking and screaming – into the twenty-first century. It's Hal that Mr Snow turns to for an answer.

"I have it on good authority," Hal tells him, "that this is dog-fighting for the X-Factor generation."

So Hal had been listening, after all. Enough to set Cutler up for this, for Snow turning his head in Cutler's direction – and those narrowed eyes study him so coldly that Cutler wishes he could go back to being part of the furniture. He fiddles with his tie, acutely aware of how Mr Snow might react if he doesn't approve of what Cutler's done here tonight. Then the music blares, the bass thumping and quivering in the pit of Cutler's stomach, and a row of faces appears on the screen: tear-stained, frowning, or slack with shock; some of them glare at each other with suspicion, with envy. All of them wait to hear the verdict, to see which of them will end up in the cage. Mr Snow considers them, amused and bemused. He hasn't walked out; he's still watching, but perhaps that's just because he himself is being watched. But Mr Snow is a fossil; the future's out there, in the crowd. So many new recruits, and most of them have never seen this before – and they're loving every minute of it: shouting and clapping, a surging tide of excitement, anticipation, as the final result is announced.

"And tonight's unlucky loser is …"

A close-up of a blotchy, glistening face – the cameraman has done some nice work tonight: he has a talent for conveying the terror – but the man doesn't shout, doesn't struggle as they march him to the cage. Maybe they should have given him something to liven him up a bit. Dog fights are short enough as it is, and it hasn't been easy filling the whole of the time slot. The man presses his back to the bars, body rigid and eyes wide, even though all he's faced with at the moment is a woman, and a small one at that. Maybe it was a mistake to give the wolf such a build-up. Maybe they had too many guards, made too much of a show of wrestling her into the arena – although it wasn't all an act. There's not long to go, now, and the moon is dragging the monster closer and closer to the surface. Still, they might need to tone that down a bit next time. If there is a next time. For him.

A clock appears in the corner of the screen: five minutes and counting. Hal shifts, and settles a little lower in his chair. One minute to go. Mr Snow seems determined not to relax, sitting bolt upright and looking for all the world like he's got a poker shoved up his arse. Thirty seconds, and the crowd are shouting along with the countdown. A howl tears its way out of misshapen vocal cords and now, finally, the man does something – panics, runs, hurls himself against unyielding steel – but Cutler isn't interested in the fight. Never was much interested, and tonight there are far more important things going on in here. Mr Snow is subjecting him to a masterclass in studied indifference, and Cutler's glad that he's got something else lined up in the hospitality lounge. Boys, girls, women and men – a few of each – because he has no idea which way Snow's tastes run, and it's not really the sort of thing you can ask the most feared man on the planet.

It's Hal who's really worrying Cutler, though; Hal, the connoisseur of dog fighting. Hal, who has the same cultivated boredom on his face – and Cutler can almost feel the hand closing around his throat, the hiss and burn of holy water. Or maybe it will be him in the cage next month, and wouldn't that just appeal to Hal's warped aesthetic? But for all that Hal is lounging in his seat, there's an unmistakeable tension in his body, the sort of violent stillness that comes just before a kill. Hal's eyes are chasing the action around the cage, and his knuckles are whitening where his hand grips the armrest. Wet tearing, a gurgling shriek, and Hal twitches forwards – a tiny, stifled movement, but it's enough. The crowd surge to their feet and their approval echoes around the stadium. And Mr Snow had better be listening – Snow and his, "Remind me of your name" – because that's the sound of all Cutler's work, all his ideas, paying off. That's the sound of success.

"Maybe I can find a use for you, after all," Mr Snow murmurs. "This format could work for the South American audience." He's actually smiling at Cutler now, and that might just be the scariest thing he's had to face all evening. "Have you ever been to Brazil?"


	3. The Boy From Ipanema

**Title:** The Boy From Ipanema  
**Fandom:** Being Human  
**Spoilers:** General for series 4.  
**Warnings:** **Brief reference to paedophilia.**  
**Disclaimer:** ___Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.

**Summary:** Tall and tan and young and lovely – that's how Cutler's been picturing the girls in Rio. _(AU – canon divergence.)_

**Feedback is love. :)**

* * *

Ipanema: it's a native word meaning 'bad water', which is depressingly apt from what Cutler's seen so far. If Copacabana has turned into a war zone, then Ipanema is a refugee camp. Most of the buildings are still standing, and it doesn't look too bad from a distance. But up close, when you're driving through it, you can see the blackened shells of cars and the sheets of plywood nailed up over the windows. And the streets have that familiar, watchful quiet: like London, only hotter. And more humid. Cutler's shirt is sticking to his back, in spite of the air conditioning. So far, Rio has been nothing but a series of disappointments. There's not a bikini in sight.

"What about the beach?" Cutler asks. His suitcase is full of sandals and swimming trunks, sunglasses and sun cream – because he's not going to be a sunburnt Brit abroad.

"I wouldn't go down there, senhor," Paulo whispers, even though it's just the two of them in the back of the car and there's a sheet of glass between them and the driver. "There have been attacks. With holy water."

"Well, can't you do something about it? Where's the army?"

"The army is busy. So is the resistance. That's why we're glad you're here. It will help to take people's minds off … other things."

"I'm only here to organise a few dog fights."

"Of course." Paulo hesitates. "And you are a brave man to do so, after what happened to the last –"

"Sorry, what?" Cutler turns so abruptly, so violently, that he makes the other man flinch. He drops his voice back down an octave. "What happened to him?" God only knows what Cutler's face is saying, but it's clearly pitiful enough that Paulo reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder – which is somehow less than reassuring.

"You mustn't worry, do you understand?"

But Cutler does understand, only too well. He's starting to understand a lot of things about this job he's been given, his nice little holiday in the sun – and it was his mistake for believing it would be that simple. Suddenly that armed escort seems less like a ceremonial honour and more like a grim necessity. If the resistance got to his predecessor they can get to him, and he never signed up for anything like this. He's not going to put his life on the line.

He'll do a quick PR job instead: shake a few hands, show his face in the right circles. He's brought the footage of the London fights. He can leave that with them, give them a few contacts in his technical department, and be on the next flight back to London. London: just the thought of it makes him long for grey drizzle, for familiar faces. For the safety net of Hal's presence. Cutler almost wishes Fergus were here, and that is never a good sign. Maybe he'll be able to requisition a plane: he is Mr Snow's representative, after all. Mr Snow's highly conspicuous, highly vulnerable, representative.

The car turns off into the grounds of an old colonial mansion and Cutler waits for the driver to open the door for him. He's the VIP around here, and he ought to get something for all the danger he's putting himself in. Cutler's eyes are drawn to the mountain top, to the rubble that marks where Christ the Redeemer once tried to embrace the world. He ought to be glad it's gone, because now he'll be able to enjoy the view from the balcony without actually being in pain, but somehow it seems wrong. A jarring void, like a tooth that's just been pulled. Then Paulo is ushering him inside, and they can bring his cases if they like, but Cutler has no intention of staying long enough to unpack.

"I've arranged for a little welcoming present," Paulo tells him. "You must be hungry after your journey. Hungry for blood and … other things."

Cutler doesn't appreciate the man's knowing leer, but he'll let it go this time if there's someone nice waiting for him in the bedroom. A real Brazilian beauty. Maybe even a girl from Ipanema: golden skin and a beach body.

"Only the best for you, senhor Cutler."

Paulo opens the door – and thumps into Cutler, who's already backing away, backing out, face heating in anger, in embarrassment. He slams the door shut again.

"What's wrong?" Paulo asks. "Isn't he pretty?"

Maybe he is, if you like that sort of thing – but Cutler really, really doesn't like that sort of thing, and he has no idea why anyone would think that he does.

"Is this some sort of joke?" he splutters, because he might be a monster but he isn't a pervert. That kid can't be more than ten years old.

"But we were told that you liked little boys."

"Who said that? Because Fergus specifically told me that he'd made all the arrange–"

Fergus – that lying fucker! He's probably laughing about this right now: Cutler the idiot, blundering around on his own in a foreign country. They're all laughing at him: Fergus and Paulo, and Mr Snow: the one who landed him in this shit hole in the first place. Hal, as well, because he'd never let a little thing like loyalty – like friendship – get in the way of a good joke. They're all waiting for him to slink home, tail between his legs.

But Cutler's going to show them. He's going to put on those shorts and sandals and take a stroll along Ipanema beach, even if he needs a whole platoon of bodyguards to watch his back. And then he's going to post a photo of it on Facebook. Cutler's going to give this country the best dog fights it's ever seen – the best the world has ever seen. More fights; more victims. And if they can't catch enough werewolves then they'll make their own. It's going to be bigger than Carnival. It's going to be bigger than any spectacle that even the Romans could have come up with – and maybe Cutler will go there next, rebuild the Colosseum. He might even make a start here, erect a new statue up on the mountain, an unambiguous statement of intent.

"Paulo," he says, and it's only now that he realises he has the man pinned to the wall. He releases his grip, because Paulo's no use to him if he isn't able to speak. "Bring me the details of your largest stadium."


	4. Biblioclasm

**Title:** Biblioclasm  
**Fandom:** Being Human  
**Spoilers:** General for series 4.  
**Warnings:** Blasphemy; swearing.  
**Disclaimer:** ___Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. The quote that Cutler is paraphrasing is from Heinrich Heine.

**Summary:** Hal wants to start a fire that might just burn them all. _(AU – canon divergence.)_

**Feedback is love. :)**

* * *

Hal burns a book. He does it in a fireplace at Downing Street, a sort of trial run to see how easy it is to destroy leather and paper and the word of God. It's very easy, judging by the hiss and crackle, and the acrid fumes that tickle Cutler's nostrils. Cutler doesn't watch, of course. He's no Old One, and he has no idea how Hal can bear it, how he could steel himself to touch the thing – but maybe Hal doesn't feel a thing. Nothing could be worth putting yourself through that much pain.

"So you're really going to do it, then?" Cutler asks, turning round as the tightness in his chest begins to ease – but it doesn't ease completely. It won't, not while this is still hanging over them.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

Hal looks up from his inspection of the charred lump in the grate – looks right at Cutler, which means that it's a genuine question, that he's prepared to listen to the answer. Things have changed since Cutler went to Brazil. A lot of things have changed, in fact, and not all of them for the better.

"It's a waste of resources," Cutler says. "You can burn the books, but you can't destroy the texts. Okay, so you managed to shut down the internet, but people always find a way. You can burn the Qur'an, but there are people who can recite the whole thing from memory – backwards."

"Then we'll destroy them, too."

A fuzzy, sepia memory: school assembly; old Mr Rosenberg; something about the burning of books ending in the burning of people. The Nazis must have been staging one of their bonfires. Nineteen thirty-something – a lifetime ago – and why that's suddenly surfaced Cutler has no idea. It's not like he cares about the bloody books. It's not like he cares about the humans, either: Hal can round them up and torch the lot of them if he wants to. It's the repercussions that scare Cutler, the repercussions that Hal just can't seem to see. Can't, or won't.

"Roosevelt said that books are weapons," Hal tells him, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket. "He was talking metaphorically, but in our case –"

The force of it sends Cutler reeling: another Bible, a tiny thing barely bigger than Hal's fist, but it's enough to make him scramble backwards and, fuck, that really, really hurts. Yes, books are weapons. There's no point in Cutler trying to deny it, not when he's doubled over and gasping like he's just been punched in the stomach. Hal's made his point, but he keeps advancing, and of course he won't be happy until he's pressed the thing into Cutler's face, until he's made him shriek – and Cutler has to remind himself that it only feels as if his skin is burning.

"I have no intention," Hal spits, "of leaving such weapons in the hands of the enemy."

Then the thing disappears back into Hal's pocket and Cutler is left – shivering and sweating – to wonder why, if his lungs are heaving, he doesn't seem to be able to breathe. But he has to find the air from somewhere, because he has to speak. He has to make Hal see that this is a mistake.

"So you burn all the books," he gasps. "What then? Are you going to burn all the crosses, too? All the menorahs and the Stars of David? Are you going to burn down all the churches and the synagogues and the mosques? It won't do any good." The Kristallnacht didn't do the Nazis any good, either, not in the long run. "And in the meantime, we've got the resistance shooting our off-duty soldiers, and setting up bomb factories right under our noses here in London. We need to focus on that, not waste our time on –"

"They're symbols," Hal cuts him off, and Cutler should have known he wouldn't stick around, that new Hal who listened to him. Cutler has changed, but Hal just keeps reverting. "Book are symbols, and symbols have power. Look at their War Child. How long has that prophecy kept the humans going?"

"Oh god, not the War Child again. She probably doesn't even exist." Cutler clamps his mouth shut, because this whole argument – as tempting as it might be – is going nowhere. He needs to try another tack. "Just look at it from a practical point of view. I mean, how are we supposed to burn a load of books that we can't even touch?"

"We get the humans to do it for us." Cutler can picture, all too vividly, what their reaction will be, but Hal is grinning. "And you seem to have forgotten that some of us are immune."

Hal would enjoy that: a demonstration of his own personal power, the superiority of an Old One. He'll want it to be seen – will probably gather a crowd and force them to watch, in spite of the ban on public gatherings. The ban that's been put in place for very good reasons.

"It's going to cause trouble," Cutler warns him.

"I can handle it."

"I don't think you realise how volatile things are out there." It's Fergus's fault: for all his tough talk, the man is afraid of telling Hal the things he doesn't like to hear. It's not just Fergus's fault: they've all been afraid, but that's a luxury they can no longer afford. "This might be all it takes to start an open rebellion – and then what? You can't lock up every single person in the country."

"Now, there's a thought," Hal smirks, and Cutler didn't come back to Britain to listen to this. In fact, he's suddenly wondering why he came back at all. It was his decision – and he's no idea if that makes it better or worse.

"I'm asking you not to do this." Cutler would beg, if he thought it would do any good.

"I've already given the orders."

Cutler has Hal by the arm; he's yanking him around, and he's going to – he doesn't know what, but he needs to do something, because this is bad news. Bad for Hal; bad for everyone.

"Christ, Hal," Cutler snarls. "Why do you always have to insist that you're right?" Hal's staring at him, startled for once into honest anger – and he isn't the only one to be surprised. But his time in Brazil has left its mark on Cutler. Hal has only chosen to see the tan, the surface changes, but the roots of it have burrowed deep. "If you're going to have your bonfire," he says, "then don't expect me to stand around and toast the marshmallows."

Cutler walks away.

Cutler walks away, and nothing happens: no angry summons to bring him to heel; no parting shot, despite the fact that Hal always has to have the last word. Cutler crosses the landing and his feet, his body – something deep inside what he thought was the unalterable core of him – tries to turn him around, to pull him back. It's an old reflex: old, but not yet dead. It doesn't matter. It's the fact that he doesn't give in to it that counts, because if he goes back this time, then he'll never stop.

Cutler's at the top of the stairs. He places his foot on the first step, because he can see the road that Hal is going to drag them down, and he can't walk it with him, not when he knows what's waiting at the end. Cutler keeps going, leaving Hal behind – leaving Hal alone. Leaving him to face it all alone. Hal: the man he calls his friend, although the truth is far more twisted than that. Far more fierce. And maybe some things are worth a little suffering, after all.

Cutler reaches the turning of the stair, and stops. He's earned his freedom: for the first time ever, he could walk away. The irony is so exquisitely painful that Cutler starts to laugh.

Hal burns a book. This time, he's standing in what used to be Trafalgar Square, surrounded by row after row of resentful faces. Hal burns a book – the first of many – and Cutler stands by his side and forces himself to watch.


	5. The Science of Discontent

**Title:** The Science of Discontent  
**Fandom:** Being Human  
**Spoilers:** General for series 4.  
**Warnings:** **Canonical character death**; original character death; implied torture; blood drinking.  
**Disclaimer:** ___Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title taken from Frank Herbert's _Dune_.

**Summary:** Paranoia, shortages and the imminent threat of invasion. It's like World War II all over again, but that's not why Cutler's feeling nostalgic.

**Feedback is love. :)**

* * *

Cutler doesn't visit the interrogation cells any more than he has to. The fluorescents buzz and glare off the white tiles, off the stainless steel, and the air is choked with fear and disinfectant. It gives him a headache. There are noises coming from behind some of the doors as he hurries past, noises that he can't even begin to describe. But there's Hal, walking out of one of the cells, and they must have got a quick result – although he doesn't look happy.

"What's so special about this one?" Cutler asks, because Hal doesn't come down here often, either. He has little time for recreation, these days.

"There was …" Hal stops, and frowns, and turns to stare – at something in the cell or maybe something far beyond it. "There was something about her." The past tense, which explains why it was over so quickly.

"Did she talk?"

"Nothing useful." A smile flashes across Hal's face. "And not the sort of language that a young lady ought to use."

Hal's mouth sinks back into the grim line that's going to become its permanent expression, if he doesn't watch out. It's hardly surprising: none of them have had much rest since they launched the latest offensive. Hal is going to be even less happy when he finds out why Cutler's here, but they're all learning to live with disappointment.

They step back to let the attendants bring the body out. Pale hair, pale skin. Cutler lifts one still-warm wrist to read the paper bracelet: _Human. Female. Age unknown. Zoe Daniels._ One of the wheels on the trolley squeaks – and squeaks and squeaks – as they take her away, down to the incinerators. Things aren't quite so desperate that they've started drinking the blood of the dead – not yet. Which brings him to why he's here.

"What is it today?" Hal asks, as Cutler snaps open his briefcase.

"It's the rationing decree." There's no point in putting it off, even if Hal is scowling.

"It won't be popular," Hal grumbles, but it's a token complaint: he takes the documents anyway. "It's not traditional."

"Only because they didn't have refrigeration back in the old days." That earns him a laugh, a brief glimpse of the old Hal, before the new weariness settles back into place. "Look, the human body holds ten pints of blood. But the stomach can't comfortably hold much more than three. To maximise –"

Hal holds up a hand. "I don't need to hear the propaganda."

"There just isn't enough to go around any more."

"And now the humans have started killing their own kind." It sounds almost like Hal approves.

"Just be grateful it's only collaborators they're going after." They keep finding the bodies in the most inconvenient places: a very public statement. A stake through the heart will kill a human just as effectively as it will kill a vampire. "If they start on the food stocks, then we really will be in trouble." Hal's been doing a little housekeeping of his own, but there are still a lot of hungry mouths to feed.

Cutler holds out his pen. This is the right thing to do; it's the only thing they can do. But part of him doesn't want Hal to acquiesce – wants him to sneer, to argue, to let the papers fall to the floor and laugh as Cutler scrabbles to retrieve them. To laugh because somehow, impossibly, he has an alternative. But when they tore down the old world order it wasn't just the humans' gods that toppled. Hal commits his name to paper with less than the usual flourish.

Cutler flinches as a shriek echoes off the hard surfaces of the corridor. It gurgles into silence, but those awful bloody lights are still droning and they're bleaching Hal to the sickly colour of a corpse.

"Come on," Cutler says, "let's get out of here."

"Have the first shipment of blood sent to Downing Street," Hal tells him as they walk.

"You're not going to drink the bottled stuff?" Cutler blurts, and Hal gives him a pitying look, the one that just can't believe that a recruit of his could be so stupid – and something in Cutler's chest aches for the lost familiarity of it. Getting what you want out of life isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"This isn't the time for conspicuous consumption," Hal tells him. "This is the time to lead by example." Even without television, it's surprising how word gets around. "To be seen to lead by example, anyway."

Two black limousines wait in the car park; two chauffeurs leap out to open their doors. Hal and Cutler start to go their separate ways – but whirl, heads whipping round as one, towards the rumble of what sounds like thunder. It's a long way off, towards the north. There's no need to panic: they've been waiting for this counter-offensive for a while now. They have plans in place.

"Why don't we have a little celebration tonight?" Hal suggests, even though there's nothing to celebrate, and he has to raise his voice to be heard over the explosions. "I'll get you that redhead from the typing pool – I've seen you looking." Cutler smiles. He's been shagging her behind Hal's back for the last few weeks, but he always likes to have Hal's blessing.

So, in the best tradition, they throw a party as London starts to burn. And when Cutler feeds he doesn't count how many pints or litres – or rationing units – that he's drinking, just savours each mouthful as it squirts hotly from the vein. Melanie stops that thing she's doing with her nimble, typist's fingers, and squeezes in close so she doesn't miss her share. Between them, they don't waste a drop.


	6. Zero Sum Game

**Title:** Zero Sum Game  
**Fandom:** Being Human  
**Spoilers:** General for series 4.  
**Warnings:** **Character deaths**.  
**Disclaimer:** ___Being Human _belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.

**Summary:** It's not loyalty, more a sense of bowing to the inevitable. _(AU – canon divergence.)_

**Feedback is love. :)**

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The humans load their water cannons with holy water, and turn them on the troops in Parliament Square. After that, it doesn't take long. The radio shrieks with the agony of dying men and Hal switches the thing off, but they can still hear it, in the distance but getting closer: not just the screams but gunfire, and every now and then the boom of an explosion. Hal lifts the teapot and pours two precisely measured cups. Cutler sits beside him, because there's nothing else he can do, and when he raises his cup in a silent toast he's amazed to find that his hand is steady.

"So this is it, then," Cutler says. It's not a question.

"This is it." Hal seems remarkably calm about it, too. "England is a lost cause."

Cutler sips at his tea, and actually it's bloody good. Hal must have been saving the best stuff for a special occasion, and he supposes that this qualifies. By the time he's halfway down the cup, he can hear the clang and roar as the rebels begin their attack on the barrier that separates Downing Street from the rest of the world. Cutler could take a peek out of the window, but sometimes ignorance is bliss – and, besides, he doesn't want to give them a target, even if they do have bullet-proof glass.

"I told Fergus to defend the gates," Hal says.

Fergus will like that. A heroic last stand, the chance to go out defending his beloved leader. It won't matter to him that no one's going to mention it in the history books: Fergus was always more interested in the here and now. Cutler's already starting to think about him in the past tense, and not just Fergus, but all of them – himself included. It's a surprisingly liberating feeling. All they have to do now is wait for the actual dying, but Hal seems content to face that with him, and maybe the whole thing isn't as bad as Cutler's always feared.

Hal's looking at his watch, and only he could expect something as chaotic as a battle to run to a timetable. "Fergus should be able to hold them off long enough."

Cutler's cup clatters back into the saucer. "Long enough for what?" Maybe Hal has put poison in the tea, because it's not like him to calmly wait for death. But that would be silly – poison won't finish a vampire – and Hal's not the sort to go in for suicide, not while there's the slightest chance of saving his skin.

"Long enough to get away," Hal tells him, and now he's tilting his head as though he's listening. Listening for something inside the building, not outside. As though he's expecting someone.

Cutler hurtles to his feet, and he grabs the arms of Hal's chair. He wants to punch the man; he wants to kiss him. He can't seem to catch his breath but somehow, suddenly, he's laughing furiously.

"You've got an escape plan?"

"Really, Cutler. How do you think I've managed to stay alive as long as I have?"

Of course he has an escape plan. He's Hal Yorke. He's an Old One, and the Old Ones are nothing if not survivors. This is just like the old days: Hal with an ace up his sleeve. No wonder he was sitting there so placidly. Hope swells painfully inside of Cutler. They're going to get out of this, him and Hal and –

"What about Fergus?" Who's out there right now, buying them whatever time they need.

Hal looks away: looks down at the floor, looks anywhere except at Cutler. His face hardens. "There's only room for two."

"Oh." Cutler supposes he should have seen that one coming. "Well, better him than us." He can't help wondering if Hal told him, if he gave him the choice. Probably not, or not until the last possible moment: best not to put ideas in his head, in case he decided to cause trouble.

"So you've got somewhere we can lie low?"

"It's safe in Bolivia. As safe as anywhere."

"Bolivia. We'll be like Butch and Sundance."

Hal grimaces. "Hopefully without the dying part," he says, and Cutler's amazed that the reference didn't just go straight over his head. Sometimes, Hal still manages to surprise him.

"So when do we leave?" Cutler asks, "because we're kind of running out of time here."

Hal's on his feet and he's looking at Cutler, really looking, until he's sure that he has Cutler's attention – which isn't easy, with the battering on the gate becoming louder and more frequent, and it sounds like they don't have long before the humans break through.

"There's only room for two," Hal says, and now he's starting to repeat himself. They've already established that Fergus won't be joining them. Cutler's going to miss the man, he really is, but tough decisions have to be made and it's not like Hal to feel guilty.

Footsteps on the stairs: whoever it is that Hal's been waiting for. Their saviour. Some traitor, coming to lead them safely through the enemy lines. It shouldn't even be possible – this entire building was supposed to be sealed – but if someone was able to get in, then they will be able to get out. Out of the city; out of the country. But Hal's expression turns bleaker as the footsteps approach. Then the door opens – and suddenly it all becomes clear.

"Only room for two," Cutler echoes. And he's not one of them.

"Are you ready?" asks Mr Snow, and Hal nods.

Cutler's fist clenches, ready to grab Mr Snow by his shirt front, to punch those rotten teeth right down his throat, to grab a stake – there must be one, somewhere: Hal's taken to carrying one, just in case – because Cutler's not going to let that old bastard take his place. He's not going to be left behind. He can do this; Hal and he can do this together, get away together. A fresh start, for both of them. Except Hal would have done it already if he were going to: that decision was made before Cutler was even born. Cutler's hand falls slack at his side.

"Cutler, I …"

"Don't you dare apologise."

Hal turns away, and Cutler wants to drag him back, wants to hear that apology after all – to hear something, anything. He wants Hal to listen to everything he has to say. That Hal's a fucking coward; that Cutler wishes him dead, wishes him the best of luck; that he wants, if nothing else, to hear him say goodbye. But there are too many words in Cutler's throat, and they lodge and choke him, and nothing comes out. They're wasting time, and there's so little of it left. Hal's walking to the door, but Mr Snow blocks his path. Snow shakes his head.

"No loose ends."

Time congeals; they stand, poised between the past and the future. Outside, metal screeches and falls: they've broken through the barrier. Crack of pistol shots; voices, surging in the street below. A deep, nostalgic note vibrates through the air: Big Ben, striking for the first time in years. The stopped clock starts again; time moves relentlessly forwards. Hal turns back and reaches into his pocket.

And maybe it was inevitable, Cutler thinks as the stake crunches home, that Hal Yorke would be the death of him.


End file.
